Guts
by Cassiel-of-Thursday
Summary: Sam is sick, which leaves Dean and Cas to take care of this case on their own. The case is a little harder than Sam had led on, and takes longer than he'd expected. They end up heading to a motel because damn Dean's tired and he doesn't trust Cas behind the wheel if he's not conscious. Tired angel injured hunter motel room for the night. The only problem? There's only one bed.


_It feels like, Finding out  
That I've got the guts  
To say anything  
Feels like, Breaking out  
When I can  
Give up my reputation  
Finally, I can see  
Honestly, I've got the guts  
To say anything._

It's ass-o-clock at night, or maybe in the morning, he's not really sure anymore. They were drug all around that stupid graveyard and in the end, Cas had ended up having to do some kind of angelic cleansing when the girl's spirit didn't pass on after burning her bones. Dean's side was bruised to hell from being thrown by the ghost that should have been up in flame into a headstone, he wasn't entirely sure he didn't have a concussion, and Cas was nodding off against the window which was a great sign.

"This will be easy, Sam says. Just take Cas, Sam says. It's just a salt and burn, Sam says. I've got the flu, Sam says," Dean grumbles as they're pulling into the parking lot of the first place in sight. All the lights are lit on the sign, not a burnt bulb to be seen, and Dean hopes the room is in decent shape.

Baby's hinges squeak as they get out of the car, and Dean grabs the duffel from the backseat on instinct, slamming the door behind him. Cas lags a couple steps behind him as they walk in, the bell chiming on the door as it swings open, but they're the only ones in the lobby.

Cas sinks into a chair opposite the counter, fingers pressing into his temples. Dean isn't able to contemplate the action before a middle-aged woman with ashen hair pulled into a bun steps out of a backroom and gives him a gentle smile. He's not sure what he looks like at this point; he knows there's dirt in places he doesn't even want to think about and that every step seems to make somewhere new ache, but it's not enough for her to call the cops on him immediately, so for that he's grateful. Sam would never hear the end of it if this 'easy hunt' landed him in a holding cell for the night.

He asks for a room, and she gives him a rueful look and says there's only single beds available. He rubs at his eyes before reluctantly digging his card out of his wallet and passing it over anyway. He's too tired to make the drive home tonight, Sam's not with him, and Cas is an angel, sitting on the couch while Dean gets the four hours or so that he needs before they can get the hell out of this town shouldn't be a problem for him, so he signs the receipt with the bull-shit name and takes the key.

He throws the key at Cas, who starts when the key bounces off his chest, and fumbles to catch it before it falls into his lap. Dean jerks his head for Cas to follow while he pulls out his phone to shoot a message to Sam.

He's not expecting a response, given the hour, and he doesn't get one, but he's still staring down at the device as Cas unlocks the door and pushes it open. He hesitates in the entrance, comparing the number on the door to the one on the keychain before Dean pushes past him and kicks it closed with his boot.

"It's the right room, Cas." He grumbles, stuffing the phone down into his pocket and tossing the duffel on the couch, since there's no spare bed. He rifles through the duffel and pulls out the bottle of tylenol he and Sam keep stocked at all times and downs three dry, hoping to soothe the headache he's had since the beginning of this stupid hunt. He tosses the bottle to Cas, remembering his posture in the lobby, picks some clean clothes, and proceeds to lock himself in the bathroom to rid himself of all the god-damn graveyard dirt. Cas had helped dig up the grave, but somehow he'd managed to stay much cleaner than Dean had.

He checks out his bruising in the mirror, noting the angry colors peppered across his side, and the one running across his shoulder from where she'd yanked on the damn duffel strap. There's a decent gash at his forehead, though the bleeding has already stopped on it so he's not concerned. He does a perfunctory pupil dilation test with the lights, and is pleased to conclude he most likely does not have a concussion. Most likely.

He doesn't waste time in the shower, his joints ache too much, his eyes burn from lack of sleep, the water pressure has nothing on the bunker and the temperature is tepid at best.

He's in clean boxers and a black tee with his towel draped over his head when he comes out of the bathroom, the other clothes folded under his arm. He tucks them into the side of the duffel, where he keeps the dirty clothes and turns towards the bed, prepared to do his usual 'check for suspicious stains' when he sees a lump already curled up in it.

His mouth tries to form several sentences, but nothing aside from aborted syllables actually makes its way past his lips. He settles for jabbing Cas in the back. The angel turns over and blinks wearily at him, and Dean throws his arms out to the side.

"Dude, what are you doing?" He asks, and maybe it comes out harsher than he meant, but he's frankly too tired to give much of a damn.

"Apparently sleeping," Cas mutters, "rather, I was. What is it Dean?" He asks, as if the rest of this situation is perfectly normal. Dean's surprise quickly morphs into concern over the angel's words.

"Since when do you sleep?" He asks.

"Now it seems. The spell seems to have been… taxing." Cas says, eyes roving over Dean's face. He moves to sit up then, and Dean notices he's still fully dressed, tie and all. Dean reaches for the tie just as Cas is reaching for him, and they both stop halfway, confused looks on their faces. "You're hurt," Cas says.

"No shit, and you're going to choke sleeping in that thing, and I'm fine. Got along fine before you had your mojo to throw around, I can deal with some bruising," he says as he deftly undoes Cas' tie, slipping the fabric from around his neck.

"I see..," Cas says, and his eyes are downcast now, and Dean wants to slap himself.

"That's not what I meant Cas," he corrects. "Sam and I are glad to have you around, just sayin' you don't have to waste power on healing my ass right now."

"You have injuries on your-"

"Not literally Cas," Dean says, chuckling. "Lose some more layers, that can't be comfortable," he says, turning around. He opens the closet by the bathroom and finds the extra bedding, pulls out a blanket and pillow, checking both before determining them to be sufficient. Cas has his trenchcoat and suit jacket on the end of the bed, and is unbuttoning his white shirt when he sees Dean laying out the blanket on the couch.

"What are you doing, Dean?" He asks, his shirt fallen to his elbows and open, leaving more skin open to Dean than he thinks he's seen since April had killed him while human. He doesn't stare, he's Dean Winchester and he does not stare. Except for when he does…

"Setting up the couch to sleep on," he says, looking down and deciding the blanket wasn't straight enough… Kind of like him…

"Why?" Cas asks, and yeah, now he's down to boxers and that's definitely more than Dean's ever seen, and he can't really help the way his eyes rove over the tanned skin and lithe muscle before he finally makes his way back up to blue eyes that are weighted down with exhaustion and confusion.

"To sleep." He grabs the duffel on the floor, pulling out a green henley and throwing it at the other man. "Put on a damn shirt," he mutters, and is surprised to see that Cas still looks confused, though he does put on the shirt, which only solves one of Dean's problems.

"You should sleep in the bed," Cas says.  
"You're in the bed."

"There's enough room in the bed."

"I'm not getting in the bed with you."  
"Don't be petulant Dean."  
"Men don't sleep together Cas."  
"I'm not a man, I'm an angel."  
"Mm, doesn't really change things."

"Don't be childish Dean, you refuse to let me heal you and you refuse to sleep on the mattress, both for stupid reasons." 

"It's not stupid, heal me when you're feeling better."  
"And the bed?"

"Not happening."  
"Why?"

"Because Cas!" 

"Because your father would disapprove?" Dean's back goes straight so fast Cas is surprised it didn't snap or at least pop from the motion. "My father doesn't even care." 

"It doesn't matter why. Go to sleep Cas." Dean says, and then Cas is standing, and damn it he thought they'd been over the personal space talk already, but there he is, inches away and not backing down. 

"Why won't you let yourself have the things you want?" 

"You don't know what you're talking about Cas," Dean mumbles and tries to turn away but Cas' hand is on his shoulder turning him back, and his other hand is on his face, forcing his gaze. 

"You wouldn't allow yourself Lisa, which you thought you wanted, you wouldn't allow yourself friendship with Benny because it bothered Sam, you never allow yourself to do anything you even THINK your brother or father would condemn you for." 

"What is it you think I want Cas?" He means it to come out harsh this time, but somehow it comes out a whisper, timid and frightened like he's a child again, like he's at the whim of John Winchester again, not in the motel room with his best friend and a grown ass man. 

Cas doesn't say words, he just slips his hand from it's place on Dean's jaw to the back of his neck, and he can't even call the motion a tug because it's too gentle, it's barley a nudge in Cas' direction and then there's lips on his. His brain short-circuits, and his arms hang uselessly at his sides and it's GOOD and then it's gone, and Cas is looking at him like he's doubting everything he's said since they walked in and that uncertainty on his face lights something in Dean and he's surging forward, his arm wrapping possessively around the angel's waist, the other reaching to tangle itself in Cas' dark hair, finally being able to touch what he's wanted for so much longer than he's willing to admit. 

He doesn't know why tonight was the turning point, why the bed was the line Cas was willing to jump over, but he's glad. There's angel pressed all along his front, and there's those incessantly chapped lips moving against his own and damn Dean can get on board with that. 

Cas tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth and SHIT if that's not a shot of electricity straight to his cock… 

"Cas," he says, and it's breathless and he really can't seem to make himself care. 

"Dean." Their foreheads are touching, breaths mingling and Dean can feel the smile pulling at his lips but god-damn he's tired and he's very near needing to jack off. He means to suggest sleep, he means to suggest the bed, but that's now what comes out. 

"Did you learn that from the pizza man?" He jokes, and Cas pulls back to look at him, something akin to a smirk gracing his shockingly clean-shaven cheeks. 

"You have a remarkable amount of porn on your computer, Dean." Cas answers and Dean sputters because that has got to be a special level of sin and he can't believe he's managed for both God and Castiel to have seen his of letting Dean respond, Cas takes his hand and pulls him to the bed. Cas acts like this is no big deal, like this isn't some monumental life-step that Dean is committing here, and it's probably good that he isn't. If he acted like it was a big deal, Dean would be more likely to turn tail and sleep in the bath tub instead. Because this is Cas, and yeah, he's not a "man," but he's got all the markings of one. Even if it weren't that, he's still an angel, and he doesn't deserve this, not by a long shot. 

"Stop it Dean," Cas says, his voice gentle. 

"Thought your mojo was low?" He says, and he's only half teasing because DAMN the mind-reading or whatever thing Cas has as an angel is just too much sometimes. 

"It is, but you can be predictable. I want this Dean. Come on." Cas is on the far side of the bed, covers pooled around his waist and the henley hanging just a little too loose on his shoulders, leaving collarbone open to the eye and Dean wants to taste… 

He stops that thought as it starts some stirrings in his boxers and slips under the covers, as close to the edge and as far from Cas as he can manage but hey, he's in the bed right? Well apparently that's not good enough for Cas because he inches closer and then tugs Dean towards the center of the bed and Dean can't really find it in himself to protest, mostly because Cas is right, he wantsthis. He hasn't shared a bed with someone since Lisa, and it's been years. Even lately his string of one-night-stands has tapered to nearly nothing.  
Cas tucks his head into Dean's shoulder, and he can feel his dark hair tickling his chin; it's some sort of natural instinct that has his arm curling up and around Cas' shoulder, holding him close, and he can feel when Cas sighs contentedly against his neck. Cas tilts his head up, brushing a kiss to the bottom of Dean's jaw, and Dean ducks down to catch his lips in a brief kiss. 

"Goodnight Dean." 

"Night Cas." 

There's no gun under his pillow, no knife on the nightstand, his angel is pretty powered down and he can't even remember if they locked the door or not. Despite all that, he sleeps soundly. Sleeps feeling safe. 

He doesn't wake up until he hears his phone ringing from the pocket of his pants and there's sunshine bearing down bright through the window and his nose is in the hair at the back of Cas' neck and he's pressed up against the angel's back and their fingers are laced on the sheets in front of the angel and his other arm is pillowing for Cas' head. His nose tickles and his arm is asleep and his phone is ringing but he isn't moving. Not yet. 

When the phone rings the third time Cas starts grumbling and Dean finally pushes up and digs around in the duffel for the pants he was wearing in the graveyard. His body, he realizes, feels refreshed and soothed, a far cry from the ache and pain of the evening before. 

"Samantha," he answers and ugh he sounds like he just woke up. 

"I've been calling you all morning, where have you been?" Sam's voice is rough,

Dean deduces it's eighty percent illness and twenty percent worry. 

"Asleep." 

"It's eleven, Dean. You said you'd be on the road by five-thirty in your text-" 

"Come on Sammy, I overslept, untwist your panties." 

"Untwist your panties" Sam grumbles and Dean can't help but laugh. "Seriously though, you and Cas okay?" 

"We're fine Sam," he says, looking back towards the angel, now turned towards him but still snoozing, hand stretched out in his direction. "We're just fine."  
He listens to Sam prattle on for a couple more minutes before ending the call and raiding the kitchenette for instant coffee before trying to rouse Cas and get them on the road. 

When they get back to the bunker and find Sam miraculously recovered and not at all surprised at their linked hands, Dean is only a little pissed. 

Maybe it's okay for an angel to be right about some things.


End file.
